


Scourge

by cherryjam (blueskull)



Series: Fairy Queen Illya AU [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fairy AU, Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Past Character Death, Reincarnation, Selectively Mute Main Character, actually theres no wol in this universe but, bear with me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:13:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskull/pseuds/cherryjam
Summary: A tale of how the curse began.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Series: Fairy Queen Illya AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1777027
Kudos: 8





	1. Hex

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of a very extensive fairy AU written on tumblr by multiple other people with their own Warriors of Light. Most content can be found [here](https://whitherliliesbloom.tumblr.com/post/616662708089192448/fairy-au-masterlist) and [here](https://ancientechos.tumblr.com/tagged/fae-queen-illya-au). The backstory is [here](https://whitherliliesbloom.tumblr.com/post/610977288020983808/the-joyous-cries-of-the-fae-could-be-heard).

Fae live in the present. Such is often said about his kind. The architect, however, prefers to live in the past. It is far more attractive, far more welcoming.

In his dreams, he relives countless hours, countless days, waking only for basic functions before sinking into blessed ignorance once more.

Today, however -- today is different. He is yet to ascertain if this is unfortunate or not.

The old, wizened _human_ ’s cane trembles with power. Of course a magician would deign to barge into his _humble_ territory. Perhaps man’s magicks are among the only things capable of fending off most of the fae -- at least insofar as the sentinels go. Unfortunately for the human, the fairy he bothers today simmers with fae magic, and does not particularly care for the rule of bringing trespassers to Titania.

Not a single human who has crossed his path has lived to tell the tale.

Magic or no magic, it will take not even a moment for him to deal with this miserable old sod.

Narrowing pale golden eyes, he lifts one of his hands, about to snap his fingers together --

“ _Wait_.”

The architect bows to no one, least of all one of that despicable, wretched, _vile_ race. It is not the command in his tone that intrigues him, but the _desperation_.

For the first time, he deigns to look at him properly, taking in the bloodstained robes, that ridiculously oversized crown upon his head, the long beard. The human takes his silence as assent of some kind.

“I need your help,” he utters, his words almost a gasp. Perhaps making his way through the trees, past the nymph and other fae sentries, had been taxing for him. The architect watches as his grip upon his cane tightens for a mere moment. “ _Please_.”

Exhaling loudly through his nose, the fae shrugs.

“So very sorry, but I am not a wish granter nor any sort of djinn. I’d tell you to find someone else, but, well, seeing as you’re going to die -- “

“ _I want to die_.”

\-- He’s not sure, truly, what he’s more impressed by: that the mage has the gall to interrupt him...or the drivel that spews from his mouth.

“I want to die, and I want to take the rest of my kind with me. Surely _you_ would have no qualms granting such a wish.”

Something nags at him then, a strange, uncomfortable sensation that has a sneer spreading across his face.

“And what ever makes you think I would agreeto grant this _desire_ of yours?” the architect asks. “You know nothing of me.” The wrinkled face lowers in a nod.

“I do not -- but I do know that fae kind have no reason to desire the company of men. The land would be far better off without them.”

“You make the mistake of assuming I care about what my fellow kind want.” His hand lifts again, and he delights in the flash of panic that streaks across the magician’s face.

“ _Wait_ , I -- “ He takes a single step forward. “If not for others, then -- why not for yourself?”

His brows furrow. “ _Myself_?”

“Are you saying you have any affection for mortals?”

“I _detest_ humans.” The venom that leaks into his voice surprises even himself -- the mage trembling back at the shadow that mars his face.

“Then, please -- all I ask is that you allow me this one favour. This singular boon. To smite the race you so abhor from this very star...that is all I desire. My people desert me...they spit upon the old traditions and teachings that have taken them so far. They stride down the path of ignorance and idiocy, with nigh a care in the world...and I would have them, every single one of them, put down for their foolishness.”

The human mage stands tall as he finishes his passionate tirade, meeting the architect’s gaze squarely with not even a flinch. His grip upon his cane regal, even kingly as he holds his shoulders back, posture impeccable in spite of his age. A stark contrast to the fae, so many years older and yet resolutely slouched.

Well...if he desires to doom his race so badly, who is he to stop him? In fact, he quite _likes_ this idea. Simply raze them all from the earth, and with little effort on his part...

“Very well.” He waves a hand carelessly, beckoning the human toward him. “I shall assist you in bringing about the end of your species.”

The old man steps forward. The fae does not miss his relieved sigh.

“Might I ask to whom I speak with, O great wish granter of mine?”

The architect snorts.

“No, you may not.” He is not so stupid, and there is only one worthy of uttering _that_ name, and she is long gone. “And you? What is your name, mortal?”

“You may call me...Thordan.”

“Mm. Charmed, I’m sure.” That name, however -- for a moment it sends a prickle through him, something like --

_Prince Thordan..._

\-- Ah, he remembers now. This man is a spawn...

The smirk that twists his mouth is devastatingly sharp as fae magic races down his arm.

“It will be slow, and painful,” he assures. “You will be the first to fall ill, but the last to die, for your death will mean the dissolution of this curse. In that sense, I suppose this will give you -- a temporary immortality. The final stage...is an unforgiving sleep, of which yours will be short.”

Black vines twist from his fingers to touch upon the wizened man’s face. It sinks into his skin like some insidious disease, rendering pale flesh black for an instant before it vanishes into his pores. The magician gasps, stumbling back slightly, before he quickly regains his footing. One of his hands comes up to touch hesitantly at his face.

“What...what must I do...?”

The fae shrugs.

“Nothing at all. Simply being in the presence of your fellow mankind is enough to pass the curse to them...and they in turn will give it to others. Before long, your entire race will fall ill, with nary a cure in sight, no matter how hard they look.” The architect’s smile is cooler than any winter breeze.

________

_This cannot be._

That singular thought echoes blankly through his mind, buzzing incessantly like a fly.

_This cannot be._

And yet -- 

He remembers his ethereal Persephone, hair of dark curled strands framing eyes greener than any blade of grass. The blood that streaked her face, wings mangled and broken after the humans had been done with her -- her body breaking and dissolving into splashes of light as her soul left his grasp forever.

And yet...the _human_ woman lying, half-fallen over the roots of the trees, is -- the very spitting image of her. If she were only to open her eyes, he is certain he would see that very same hue. And beyond that...the soul that ensconces her form...

The soul that flickers so very weakly with a disease of his own doing.

A discarded basket lies tumbled on the ground near her, herbs and grasses spilling out of it. Perhaps she had been searching for something here -- looking for something to quell the pain that surely wracks her body. Or perhaps, based on the colouration of her robes, she might be a healer looking to provide succor.

It matters not, only that she is _here_...

Those forest guards must truly be slacking at their jobs if she has managed to wander this far into fairy lands...

With a tiny click of his teeth, he leans down to pick her up, one arm beneath her knees while the other cradles her head.

She is far too light, even for a human.

He’s about to leave when he pauses, thinks better of it, and nods at the basket. It rights itself and floats after him as he flutters away.

________

She does not stir even when he lays her upon his bed, removing her satchel so the strap doesn’t bother her. He places it to the side as he stares down at her -- at that hauntingly familiar face.

Even though he has not seen her in the flesh in so long, he -- remembers so clearly -- 

Fingers lightly touch upon her cheek. The chillness of her flesh has him clicking his tongue in disapproval. And in the light of his home, she looks far too pale --

His gaze flicks from her to the bag she had carried with her. He is not a snoop, but he peers into it anyway, out of curiosity. If she is his, then it stands to reason what is hers is his as well, no? And what she does not know has no reason to vex her.

Amongst numerous uninteresting baubles is a book. This, he opens, flips through -- the words he reads has his jaw setting, brows furrowing in consternation.

Of course.

Exhaling loudly, he snaps the book shut and returns it to its rightful place.

The architect draws his hands over the sleeping woman, his own magic seeping through her. Withered lungs, unsuitable for drawing proper breath, expand; the shrivelled, weakened muscles restored to their proper strength. Colour returns a faint hue to the woman’s cheeks, and for the first time since he has seen her, she breathes easily, her sleep effortless. The fae pulls one of his blankets around her, satisfied.

With a world-weary sigh, the fae throws himself carelessly into a chair, and smacks the heel of his palm to his forehead as he watches her in slumber, awaiting for her to awaken.


	2. Bewitch

Time ticks on, somehow slower than it has ever been before. It feels like far, far too long since he’s laid her to sleep...and he wonders if he should awaken her. But finally --

She stirs, faintly at first. A mere twitching of her fingers, a restless shift of her legs. Then a quiet hum as her eyes dazedly open...

The confusion is slow to settle in. She glances about, doesn’t appear to see him at first -- though once she does, he _almost_ feels _bad_ for finding hilarity in her reaction.

The woman all but flies off the bed, patting at her stomach and side distractedly before realising she lacks her bag.

“You’ll find your things there,” the architect says helpfully, pointing to the bed behind her. Somehow, he manages to keep his mirth in check. The woman casts him a cautious, almost hunted glance, before quickly turning about and confirming his words. She hastily loops the bag over her neck and shoulders. Either she doesn’t notice her sudden good health or is too frightened to give it any mind. Well, that would be understandable, he supposes --

To his dismay, she immediately sets sights for the door, and bolts toward it.

“Wait!” Nearly upturning the chair in his haste to stand, he reaches for her, though he refrains from pursuing her. That would actually frighten her, he thinks. Though --

He doesn’t want her to leave. He --

_Blessedly_ , she stops. The rush of adrenaline has him feeling lightheaded. She halts, fingers gently upon the doorknob, before she hesitantly turns to look at him with a tilted head.

“I-I would refrain from leaving if I were you.” Her confusion is palpable, so he takes a deep heaving breath and speaks again. “For the moment, at least. This -- well, I am sure you have noticed...” He twitches a wing once, for emphasis, watches her watch him. The crease in the woman’s brows deepens. “I am sure you have noticed I am a _fairy_. I suppose I shall have to explain your being here...”

Slowly, he lowers himself to sit again. Though the woman doesn’t relax, she doesn’t make to leave again, either. For the moment.

The architect hadn’t pilfered through the book in great detail -- but he would like to think this house, with vines and flowers coiling up its walls, bears some modicum of familiarity. He hasn’t bothered to change it from her preferences, after all.

“I found you in the forest, collapsed and ill. Judging by the basket you had with you...you are a healer of some sort? Or simply out collecting herbs? No matter.” He waves a hand idly. The bare flickers in her expression are all the confirmation he needs. He _does_ wish she would speak, yet -- good things come to those who wait. It had been like this before, too. He is patient -- childish apprehension be damned.

“I took you to my home before anyone else might find you. You’ve likely heard the other fairies are not especially _forgiving_ of trespassers, regardless whether it is intentional on your part or not.” Ah...he least of all, though there was not really any need for her to know that. “I took the liberty of curing your ailment, as well. You should find it much easier to breathe now, no?”

It’s as if he’s flicked a switch. He watches the realisation dawn upon her; one hand flies to her collarbone as she takes in a deep breath, uninhibited by any disease. Her mouth opens, and _he_ nearly stops breathing -- but ah, it is only to let out a shaky breath.

To his delight, she returns to sit on the edge of the bed, apparently satisfied by his trustworthiness. The human woman removes the book from her satchel and fishes out a writing instrument.

> _Thank you._

“Oh, think nothing of it, my dear.” A slip of tongue; he’s over-eager, though the flush that rises to her cheeks is a nice reward. He prays she thinks it merely a vocal tic. “I’ll help you leave once it is...more manageable. The other fae tend to be quite active this time of day...but never mind that.” He waves a hand idly as he continues. “Might I have your name?”

The only sound in the small home is the water of the miniature terrariums and the scratch of her writing on paper, before she finally shows him her response.

> _My name is Arianna._

“Arianna,” he reads aloud with a quirked brow, leaning forward slightly. “What a charming name.” The red colour to the woman’s cheeks deepens as she once again busies herself with her parchment, pointedly looking away from him.

> _What is your name?_

He has to resist the urge to laugh at the question. Ah -- he really cannot help himself.

“I think you already know the answer to _that_ ,” he says with a sardonic smile. And gives a knowing nod to the very book she holds.

Arianna gives a rather expressive blink in response, before she returns to her book to flick through it in earnestness. She seems to pause on one page in particular, her head tilted slightly to the side in consideration. He wishes he could read it from this angle.

It’s a while before she finally writes to him again, and despite his bristling curiosity, the architect does not ask. He merely waits, fingers steepled.

> _But these are just stories? How would I know from a story? And how do you know about them?_

The fae’s brow creases as he considers his reply, though he finally leans back with a sigh.

“I’ll answer your last question first, since it’s easiest. I’m afraid when I took you here, your book just so happened to fall from your possessions.” The smile comes to him easily. “I know it was terribly rude of me, but I was quite curious and hoped it might give me an inkling of who you were. And, well...the rest can be explained, though I’m afraid it’s a long story.”

She seems, at the very least, content with his response.

> _I do like stories._

The curve of his mouth is sharp. “Then you’re in luck, for I have quite the interesting one, if you would deign to hear it.” He shifts to sit more properly at the table, gesturing to the other chair across from him. “Would you sit with me?”

She peers at him, and he fears the answer is a resounding _no_. He dons his easy smile again, prepared to push the matter away, when she stands timidly and then takes the proffered chair, smoothing her robes modestly about her legs. She lays the book flat on the table, before she finally turns her keen gaze to him.

He is close enough to see every fleck of light in her eyes, and they are the very same colour he remembers.

With a shaky exhale he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in, the architect gently tugs the book closer to him.

She does not ask to leave that evening, nor the next, either. And, of course, he would never think to remind her.

________

Arianna is nothing if not intrigued, and he is more than happy to talk at length of their shared past.

They cannot be as close as they were before.

\-- Not so soon.

But the first time she speaks to him makes him feel as if the sun has just finally dawned upon him once more. Though she has no wings of her own and seems a touch more fearful than before, she is very much the _same_. Even despite her being a mortal...she possesses, at the very least, magical _aptitude_ , yet untapped. She need merely will it...

He watches as she sleeps, makes silly or serious conversation when she wakes, and she seems more than happy to whittle away the days ensconced in the warmth of his cottage. Their cottage?

Even when she leaves, it is not especially far. Thank whatever gods are still left --

“H-have you not -- slept? You seem...tired...?”

Her quiet voice breaks through his thoughts. The fae has to bite his lower lip to keep from smiling, though in hindsight he’s not entirely sure _why_ he wants to smile in the first place. Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep getting to him. Truly, when was the last time he’d gone without rest for so long...?

“I will be all right. You needn’t...trouble yourself.”

“A-are you sure...? You should -- you should sleep, if you’re tired...”

“Your concern is admirable, but unnecessary. I assure you, I am _fine_.”

And that is the end of the conversation. She says nothing more, though he feels her frown without having to look at her. A world-weary sigh heaves through him as his shoulders rise and lower in a vague shrug, perhaps a touch apologetic.

But that is the end of it.

At least until he nearly trips over a godsforsaken chair in his sluggishness. An embarrassment to fae, this -- and he’s almost too drained to feel shame.

“Y-you really should rest, I think -- ” She’s more insistent now, the slightest bit of hesitation before one of her slender hands grasps at one of his wrists. His tongue clicks in annoyance, a grumble rising in his throat.

But truly, he can’t deny her any longer, not when he feels almost lightheaded. The temptation of sleep looms, his eyelids heavy and aching and filled with sand. He feels each and every single one of his years as he finally lugs himself in the direction of the bed he hasn’t used since she arrived.

“I -- I’ll make you some tea,” Arianna says, voice earnest. The proclamation has a surge of energy uncannily close to fear coursing through him -- now it’s his turn to grasp at her wrist, though there’s no force in his grip. He’s too tired to meet her gaze, instead blinking drowsily at where he touches her. She doesn’t attempt to pull away.

“I don’t need _tea_ ,” he mutters finally, his shoulders slouched. “Just...you...” He can feel her arm tense beneath his hold. Was it something he said? He doesn’t want to think about it. He feels her pulse beneath his thumb as he absentmindedly strokes her wrist.

“A-are you sure...?” She still doesn’t move away. Good...he doesn’t want her to.

“I am very sure. I...” He pauses. Wonders if he’ll regret asking later. Perhaps. But -- “Will you be here...? When I awaken.” He summons the energy to finally look her in the eye. There’s a charming flush to her expression, albeit fading in lieu of something he thinks is probably bewilderment.

“I-I -- yes...? W-why would I not be...?”

“Ah...” Foolish of him to ask, then. Might not be too late to strategically bury himself in a ditch. “N-no reason, I suppose...I was just...” He trails off, frowns, and throws himself against the bed to bury his face against the pillow. Another mistake. He feels the heat of his flesh all the more and drowns in lavender and chamomile.

When her hand gently pulls from him, he stubbornly shoves both of his beneath the pillow. He expects silence, or perhaps to hear the door closing as she leaves. He’s acting ridiculous.

Instead, he feels her fingers hesitantly stroking through his hair. Almost immediately, he feels all the sickly coiled tension sapping from his limbs.

“I-I will not leave, I -- I promise.” Her voice is soft and gentle and everything he remembers as she continues to gently pet him. It takes all his fraying willpower not to simply turn and pull her into him. He clasps his fingers together. “You should sleep...I will be here.”

He believes her, and when he awakens, he finds her curled up next to him.


End file.
